How did I ever allow my life to be filled with such trash?
Literally! I just went into a totally unscheduled cleaning frenzy on the back porch, which, granted, we use as a mudroom and trash/recycling center, and I ended up hauling TEN LAWN-SIZED TRASH BAGS TO THE DUMP. And that’s not even counting the extra load of broken chairs and dead keyboards and cd players and cardboard and packaging materials from all the crap we bought recently.
I can’t even begin to understand how I — hater of all clutter and disorder — could possibly allow things to get so bad!
I married a slob and a pack rat, that’s how. And I’m usually too damn passive to make things stay the way I like them.
There seems to be some kind of planetary alignment conducive to chucking shit out, because we’ve been doing it at work, too. And I don’t just mean that unfortunate person who just got “eliminated,” either. We have been routinely carrying huge trash bags full of crap to the dumpster at the end of every day, and every day we wonder where the hell all the crap came from, and why we were content to live with it for so long.
I am renowned in my professional life for (1) wearing black all the time, common in other places but less so here in the land of the pink and green whale-print pants, and (2) keeping an immaculate office. I straighten all the items on my desk before I leave for lunch, not just at the end of the day. I have all my pens facing the same direction. I buy perfectly shaped and sized plastic containers at Staples for all of my various files and storage needs, and keep things sorted and tied down like we were at goddamn sea.
I am widely suspected of being a practictioner of secret feng shui rites in my office, so free of clutter and disorder is it.
I was known in college for having a dorm room you could waltz in, so enamored of clean, open space was I.
Why is my house a mess?
My car is not a mess. My office is not a mess. I am less of a personal mess than I have been in the past.
Well, at least my porch is, for now, in order.